Online: Eiodolon Realms – Child of Ruin-Chapter 39 - 38 – The First Flames of Craftsmanship

Chapter 39: Chapter 38 – The First Flames of Craftsmanship

The stars above the illusory village shimmered faintly, artificial yet no less beautiful. The night air was cool, scented with coal and embers still smoldering from the day’s work. Eron lay on a rough straw mattress in the small wooden cabin given to him—sleep refusing to come.

His eyes were open, fixed on the cracked ceiling above, but his mind was replaying the clang of hammer on metal, the hiss of cooling steel, the way the rare-grade blade had taken shape under his fingers.

I really did it, he thought. Heheh.. Not bad

Most beginners barely managed to fuse two metals without them cracking. But his work—the blade he’d spent 18 straight hours on—glowed with a faint silver sheen, its edge crisp and its balance smooth. It wasn’t just luck. He had felt it, every strike, every contour. His hands still throbbed with dull pain, but it was the good kind, the earned one.

A smile broke across his face in the darkness.

"I’m really going to be a blacksmith," he whispered to no one.

Sleep came eventually, not from exhaustion, but from the contentment of a soul finally walking the right path.

Morning light filtered through the wooden slats of the window, golden and soft. A knock came, not loud, but firm.

"Up," came the old man’s gruff voice.

Eron sat up immediately, still groggy but alert. He washed his face quickly, slipped on the heavy leather apron the old man had given him yesterday, and stepped outside.

The old man didn’t speak much as they walked through the village. They passed the same illusioned NPCs moving about like echoes of a long-forgotten past. But this time, they didn’t go to the open forge.

Instead, the old man took him behind the village, through a narrow path covered in moss and ash, leading to a stone cellar carved into the hillside.

With a grunt, the old man shoved the iron door open.

Inside was an ancient forge chamber, older than anything Eron had seen in the realm so far. Its walls were engraved with diagrams of armor types, enchantment matrices, and old runes. The anvil at its center was cracked down the middle—yet still pulsing faintly with dormant magic. Racks of tools lined the far walls. Hammers of all sizes. Tongs of rare shapes. Some were made of bone, others obsidian.

Eron stepped in, breath caught in his throat.

The old man glanced at him. "You made a rare-grade sword. Lucky or not, you’ve earned the next lesson."

Eron straightened. "What are we crafting?"

The old man walked to a locked chest and drew out a rolled blueprint. He laid it flat on the worktable, revealing a detailed sketch of a sleek but durable torso armor. Interlocked scales at the sides, leather straps across the back, and iron reinforcements along the chest and shoulders.

"This," the old man said, tapping the blueprint, "is a Scaled Vest of the Windstrider Pattern. It balances defense with mobility. It is designed for scouts, rogues, and light-armor warriors. Not easy to make but also not impossible."

Eron’s eyes lit up. "We’re making that?"

"No." The old man smirked. "I will. You will watch."

He grabbed materials from nearby bins: treated leather, scale plates, iron lining, a thin mana-conductive mesh, and a tiny vial of condensed frost oil.

Then, without another word, he got to work.

Eron stood silently, watching as the old man’s movements transformed from stiff and tired into something else entirely. Every motion was calculated, fluid, and purposeful. The way he cut the leather—using a blade he’d shaped from ice-forged silver. The way he warmed the iron plates until they were pliable and folded them with a single hammer strike. The seamless stitching of the mana mesh into the inner layer without damaging its channels.

Even the placement of scales was an art. He positioned each so that the armor would flow with the wearer’s movement, reducing resistance without weakening protection.

Eron found his mouth dry.

The old man was... graceful. Not just skilled he was masterful.

It wasn’t until two hours later that he finally spoke again. "Why are you standing like a statue?"

"I... didn’t want to disturb you," Eron admitted.

The old man scoffed. "You won’t learn anything with your mouth shut. Start asking."

Eron did. For the next hour, he asked questions about leather tempering, about aligning enchantment layers, about why some scales were placed slightly askew, and what type of oil had been mixed into the seams.

The old man answered, mostly with grunts and short explanations—but they were clear, precise, and packed with more wisdom than Eron had expected.

At the end, the Scaled Vest sat proudly on the display rack. It shimmered faintly under the forge light.

"Mid-Rare Grade," the old man muttered. "Could’ve gone higher, but I skipped the spirit imprinting."

Eron stepped forward, running a hand over the scales. It was light. Lighter than it looked.

"You’re really amazing at this," he said.

The old man looked at him, then turned back to his tools. "I should be, kid. After all, I have been doing this longer than your ancestors have been alive."

Eron chuckled.

Then the old man added, "Tomorrow, you will make your first armor. That too alone."

Eron blinked. "Not a step-by-step guide?"

"I’ll watch. That’s about it."

Eron hesitated, then nodded. "Alright."

He turned to leave, his heart pounding again. But this time, it wasn’t just excitement.

It was the weight of a challenge.

That night, Eron sat in the same wooden cabin—but he couldn’t sleep again. Only this time, it wasn’t from joy.

He was nervous.

But under the nerves, something else had settled. A fire. A determination. His hands itched to get back to the forge.

Tomorrow, he thought, I begin forging not just metal... but my path. I need to prove that what happened yesterday was not merely luck but skill. His skill.

He closed his eyes, finally finding sleep in the warm glow of ambition